


Limbo

by fadagaski



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Drugs, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Enterprise limps home, McCoy has been doping himself with stims since Vulcan to cope with the sheer volume of patients in Sickbay. He needs the help of a friend when it's time to come down off the high.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limbo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [airspaniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/gifts).



Fifty-nine hours. That's how long McCoy has been awake. He tries to work out how many days that covers, what day of the week it is right now, but he's always been one of those people who counts in 'sleeps' - it isn't the morning after until he's slept and woken up again. After five minutes spent pondering instead of checking Pike's chart held in shaking fingers, McCoy decides he's had enough. Done.

"Geoff," he calls to the doctor who just came on shift after a few hours of rest. M'Benga pads over to McCoy's office. "I'm off-duty for the next six hours. Pike's stable, no one is in imminent danger of dying, so just - hold the fort." He hands the chart over as he passes.

"Yes sir," Geoff says, or at least McCoy thinks he does. His brain is a little spacey from the sheer amount of stims coursing through his bloodstream, making his limbs twitch. Sound seems to come in strange waves, at once loud and muffled, so that it takes actual effort to parse out meaning. Everything is over-bright, even running at half-power as they are. And smell - God. McCoy has spent sixteen years working in one hospital or another, but he's never gagged at the overpowering stench of blood, burnt tissue, and vomit before.

He vibrates through the winding, debris-ridden corridors to his bunk. Depressing the entry button sends shivers through his thumb up his arm like pins and needles. It's pitch black inside.

"Lights," he croaks. Even the rumble of his own voice seems to echo all through his body.

"Engh. Lights off." Jim's voice, from inside. McCoy's shaking harder now, stood at the threshold to his own room with skin prickling under the rasp of his clothes, fingers spasming, teeth pressing indents into his lip. The stims are starting to wear off, but his mind is still hyper-alert. He breathes deep through his nose, and can smell Jim.

"Lights on," he says again, and stumbles inside. Sprawled on top of McCoy's bed, wearing just his underpants, Jim muffles a protest into the pillow. He lifts his head to peer at McCoy with bleary eyes.

"Bones?"

McCoy's just standing in the middle of the room, flexing his hands into fists and out again, his knees trembling to keep him upright, and all he can do is suck in huge gusts of Jim's scent into his lungs, practically taste him on his tongue.

"Hey, you okay?"

McCoy gapes like a fish for a few seconds before he can dredge up a response. "Stims," he grunts. A light dawns in Jim's rapidly-clearing eyes.

"You on a down?" A nod; McCoy can feel every muscle, nerve, tendon and bone in his neck working in broken harmony. His jelly knees start to give. "Woah, hey, okay." Jim hops off the bed, slings his arms around McCoy's middle to keep him from hitting the ground.

"Your ribs," McCoy grunts in warning. His body might be crapping out on him, but he remembers treating Jim just fine.

"My ribs will be much better if you get on the bed." His arms are shaking with the strain of holding McCoy up. The tremors seem to pass through into McCoy, and don't stop when he collapses face-first atop the sheets. In fact they get worse. He feels like he's going to shake apart, pulls himself into a tight ball to stop his limbs from escaping.

Jim clambers onto the bed, crawls right over McCoy into the narrow space by the wall, and wraps him in arms and legs like a goddamn octopus. McCoy's skin sings to life at the press of so much warm flesh, even through the layers of his itchy, smelly uniform. Tingles shoot from his fingers held in Jim's warm, dry grip, down the length of his spine to writhe in his cock.

"Jim. Jim!" he gasps, can't help but wriggle back against the wall of warmth behind him. There's sweat breaking out across his skin, he can feel it, beading along his hairline and the back of his neck. Jim's breath gusts over the wet skin, sending a violent shiver through every inch of him. His dick is painfully hard. He's hyper-aware of it, pulsing with every heartbeat, the scratch of his underwear like ignition. He bites his lip again. "God, Jim. I need - I, please, I -"

"Yeah, okay," Jim says. "I got you." He keeps his hands where they are, gripping McCoy's, but his leg hitches higher, over McCoy's hip like some goddamn acrobat, until his heel is pressed over McCoy's crotch and he can thrust up against it. It's damn uncomfortable, almost to the point of painful, the hard curve of Jim's heel bone and the prickly sensation of Starfleet underpants, but McCoy can't stop grinding his cock forward and his ass back, sweat tickling over his skin and his cheeks flushing hot and red.

He could come like this, he knows, has done it before, even. Back at the Academy, before this clusterfuck of a maiden voyage. Pulling double shifts at the clinic on top of a full classload, coming back to the dorm at last with energy crackling under his skin looking for any kind of way out. Rubbing one off on Jim is a temporary reprieve of about five minutes, before the buzzing starts again. They know now that McCoy needs something more.

"Jim," he mutters, can't stop his hips from moving, but Jim can, tightening his leg until McCoy only has space to breathe. Another spasm rolls over McCoy's body, starting from his shoulders and ending with a sudden flex and curl of his toes. He grunts at the cramp that flickers through the tendons there. The twitch and flail in his arms seems to subside after that, though his skin is still burning/tingling and he can feel every bead of sweat dotting his flesh.

Jim unwinds himself from around McCoy. The scrape of his limbs jolts like pleasurable agony over his nerves and he whimpers. "Come on," Jim says. He tugs at McCoy until he's sat upright, more or less; his balance is off, or else the whole ship is listing to the right. Jim goes for the buttons of McCoy's uniform, and McCoy tries to help, but just because his arms aren't trying to spasm out of their sockets now doesn't mean he has any more coordination. His fingers fumble and slip, until Jim knocks them away with an impatient huff. He strips McCoy faster than McCoy can keep up, head swimming as his undershirt is pulled up and off. He clutches at Jim's arms, reorientates himself with Jim as his centre and guide.

McCoy can only watch with wavering vision as Jim leans forward and presses their mouths together, and oh - Oh. God, Jim tastes, he tastes - McCoy can't get enough, falls back against the mattress and pulls Jim with him, over him. Slick glide of his tongue and the shocking nip of his teeth on McCoy's lower lip, the heavy weight of him pressing McCoy down and down and down. He ruts up, doesn't care about the confines of his pants, just wants to spark all his nerves alight by undulating against Jim's warm body.

McCoy whimpers when Jim kneels up, removing the warmth and the weight and the feel of him. His hands grip at Jim's hips, but he doesn't have the muscle coordination to hold Jim tight to him. Jim's kissing him again though, tongue skating along McCoy's teeth almost a distraction from the tickle of knuckles against his belly. Then his pants are shoved down, and it's all he can do to roll his hips up so that pants and boxers can wriggle away. Without breaking the suction of their mouths, Jim pulls his own briefs off, and then he's positioning the whole length of him against McCoy, chest to chest and cock to cock. McCoy keens, loudly, head thrown back, whole body vibrating under Jim's, feeling like his skin is going to burn away from the heat and friction as they rock against each other.

It's almost enough, it is, the lick of fire in his balls as they tighten, the smear of precome from the tip of his cock across Jim's soft belly. But then Jim's moving away again, back up on his knees, mouth nipping down McCoy's sternum despite the fingers scrabbling at his shoulders to keep him stationary. Jim pulls off McCoy's pants where they were tangled around his ankles, pressing burning kisses to his knees. McCoy can only mewl, and pant. He clutches at the coarse bedsheets and feels the creak of his ribs with every harsh breath and tries to focus on Jim's touch over the buzz of his nerves through the rest of his body.

Jim's lips work back up McCoy's legs, just the hint of tongue on his inner thighs that has him shaking all over again. His cock is pulsing, hard and almost flat against his belly. And then Jim let's go, completely. For a dizzying, horrifying second, McCoy is alone in his own too-tight skin. He whimpers, eyes opening wide, muscles tensed and ready to bolt, when Jim grips his hips and swallows McCoy's cock down in one go.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST." McCoy arches clear off the bed, held down only by Jim's firm hands and his hot mouth, scorching whatever brains McCoy has left after the dozens of stims. McCoy writhes, writhes, feet slipping when he tries to find purchase against the scratchy sheets, his whole body on fire, centred on Jim's sinful mouth. McCoy can't even work his muscles to look down, but he's seen it before, knows that Jim's lips will be stretched and strawberry-red around McCoy's cock, knows the curve of his lashes will sweep the flush of his cheeks, hollowed out as he sucks and sucks and sucks.

"Fuck! Jim, I -" McCoy can feel it coming, quaking in his thighs as he tries to thrust up against Jim's hands and the soft give of his throat. God, he's so close, he's practically there, and he bites his lip and strains for it.

Jim's hand wraps tight around the base of his dick.

McCoy sobs. His head thrashes on the pillow, grunts and moans spilling unchecked from his lips as his cock burns in Jim's mouth, and he doesn't come. Jim keeps his hand there, hollows his cheeks and swallows down until his nose is pressed to McCoy's belly. He hums, a deep vibration that destroys McCoy utterly.

"Jim, please! Please!" he begs, though he might as well have been speaking Andorian for all the good it does him. Jim lets go McCoy's hip, keeps one hand tight around McCoy's dick, takes the fingers of his other and slides them into his own mouth, so that they're lying next to the dick already there.

McCoy has to look, can hardly believe what he's feeling. It's a monumental effort to get his head up, but so worth it to see Jim, mouth full with McCoy's cock and his lips stretched obscenely around the added fingers. McCoy counts three before his vision waves and his neck gives out again.

There's a pornographic squelch when the fingers are removed, fingernails scraping along the left side of McCoy's dick. Jim shuffles a little closer so that McCoy has no choice but to spread his legs wider around Jim's shoulders. He keeps sucking, keeps bobbing his head and fluttering his tongue around McCoy's cock, drool sliding down the length to coat his balls, keeps a tight noose around the base so that all the sensations build up like water behind a dam. McCoy whimpers and groans and thrusts up best he can, whole skin prickling with feverish sweat.

A slick finger presses against the tender flesh behind his balls, slides back to his crack until it reaches his hole, and dips in. McCoy can't help it, he clenches down, biting his lip savagely. Jim hums again, circles the hole with his finger, dipping in a little closer. McCoy can't relax, not strung up on lust and the last of the stims as he is, but his asshole does ease up enough for Jim to slip in.

Jim chooses that moment to apply a feather-light scrape of teeth along the length of McCoy's cock, so he barely notices when one finger quickly becomes two, he's too busy arching his back, fingers scrabbling for anything to ground him and eventually finding Jim's too-short hair. His jaw must be aching, but Jim keeps going, slurping up and down McCoy's cock with filthy noises that rattle through McCoy's head to add to the pulse of hot-wet-want.

He feels the third finger go in, stretching his hole with not quite enough lube, the burn of it a shocking counterpoint to the slick glide of Jim's scorching mouth. He grinds down on it, thrusts up past Jim's lips, does it again, and again, can't keep the shaky give-and-take of his hips. Jim pulls off McCoy's cock with a wet smack, just quick enough to spit into hand, and then he's swallowing McCoy back down before he even had time to process the loss.

When Jim slides his pinky finger in, McCoy very nearly screams. His breath is stolen too soon by the slide of Jim's tongue through the slit of McCoy's cock, and it's enough to break the dam, uncoil all the lust storing up behind Jim's fingers. Except Jim's fingers don't move. There's still that noose around the base of McCoy's cock.

McCoy can't hear anything over the pounding of his pulse, but he's pretty sure he's cursing Jim six ways from Sunday, or maybe begging him, pleading with him, promising him the world if he'll just let McCoy come, because goddammit the sheets are sticking to his sweaty skin and his throat hurts from breathing too hard for too long and his legs are shaking again, with lust this time, and then Jim crooks his fingers inside McCoy's asshole.

"Fuckfuckfuck Jim JIM please fuck just please let me letmeletme Jesus FUCK -" and he chokes on his own breath because Jim does it again, stroking firm and insistent over that sweet spot inside him while his mouth just sucks and sucks and God, McCoy cannot do this for much longer, he really can't, he's going to explode from all the lust inside him. He sobs again, thinks he can feel tears tricking down his face but doesn't care, he just needs to come so badly and Jim's still got that fucking hand gripped around McCoy's dick.

Jim nibbles at the tip of McCoy's cock, thrusts his fingers hard into his ass, does it again and again till McCoy's seeing stars and his breaths coming in broken gasps.

"Jim," he croaks. "Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim." An answer to every thrust. The buzzing's gone, all of McCoy's body - his whole existence - narrowed down to the man kneeling between his legs. "Jim."

Jim licks once at the eye of McCoy's cock, lets go his finger-noose and swallows down just as his other hand scrapes over McCoy's prostate, and then he's coming and coming, everything pouring out of him in one long rush from the tips of his curled toes and down his spine through his cock, pumping into Jim's waiting mouth and he might be screaming or crying but he doesn't care because thank fuck -

He blacked out, but he comes too when Jim sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of McCoy's inner thigh. McCoy jolts at the sharp sting even though his body feels like rubber. Jim sucks and nibbles at the skin beneath his mouth, his hand moving fast over his own cock. McCoy watches, dazed, as Jim comes over the ruined sheets. His moan, muffled into McCoy's thigh, sings through his skin, and a shiver chases after it.

After a deep sigh, Jim presses a gentle kiss to the spot he's marked. He crawls up the bed to collapse at McCoy's side. The bed's a single, far too small for two grown men, and the sheets are destroyed, but they make it work. They flop around until they can get underneath the covers, ignore the wet patches on the mattress and each other. McCoy doesn't even have the energy to roll on to his side now, just lets Jim manhandle him until he's half-covered in Jim-limbs with his head tucked under Jim's chin. His skin is tingling, because of cooling sweat and not the stims running their last course.

Jim doesn't say anything. Just closes his eyes, follows the hardwired path from orgasm to sleep. McCoy can feel himself going too. He releases a deep sigh from way down in his chest, relief bubbling through him now after so many hours - days, whatever - of tension and stress.

His fingers wander to the bite on his thigh. There'll be a bruise there, McCoy thinks. He can already feel it blossoming, the dull ache of broken blood vessels blooming under thin skin. No one will see it, but he'll know it's there. He presses his thumb against it just to feel, and slides into sleep soon after.


End file.
